


Simulacrum

by AlasPoorYorcake



Series: Sandbox [2]
Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), markiplier - Fandom
Genre: ... - Freeform, Gen, No relationship tags, basically a simulacra AU, but probably not as scary, small introduction for larger series character, technically in the past, we'll see, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 21:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlasPoorYorcake/pseuds/AlasPoorYorcake
Summary: After Celine and William move out together, Mark holes himself up in his house, dodging his staff and stubborn letters from Damien. But after a particularly harrowing nightmare, an impossible object appears on his bedside table that sends him on a rather brief, if odd, escapade.Or, Old Timey Mark Finds A Phone And Is Confused™.





	Simulacrum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to Mark Fischbach.

* * *

 

The mansion gets cold at night. The wood panels in the floor and the walls creak and shiver, and the air turns thin. The glass in the windows blooms to a snowy blue, ringlets of frost barely visible at the edges. The house has always been cold, always felt unforgiving to outsiders, but these days the cold feels more like home than ever.

Mark is cold, in a way, too. His skin, slick with freezing sweat, clings to his unwashed robe, and his voice is frozen from disuse. His bare feet drag noiselessly on the cold tiles as he ghosts through the house at night, fading from room to room with no purpose.

If his staff has noticed his nightly escapades, they haven’t mentioned anything. They haven’t mentioned anything about the broken thermostat either, or the broken picture frames. In fact, he hasn’t seen them in days-- weeks-- but the thought is distant, unemotional. It slips through his mind like work and food and sleep all do, sand in a sieve. He has nothing left of his life.

He has…

Damien still writes. Varying lengths of parchment, detailing work and friends and _concern_. Mark has considered burning the letters, but with the sheer amount of them, he’d run the risk of burning down the whole mansion. So he keeps them shoved away, unopened, in a dark drawer in his desk, locked with a cold brass key.

The mansion thaws as the sun rises, so Mark sleeps. It’s fitful and tortured and damn near impossible to keep up, but he doesn’t want to feel the activity of daytime or have the sun bear down on him or face the worry of his staff.

Damien’s letters appear with his food: in a tray by his door every morning and every night, and on good nights he’ll sneak a bite and not be afraid that it might fall right through him. Like he wasn’t quite real.

What preoccupies his thoughts, pushing away every other obligation, is the unthinkable. Questions upon questions that he doesn’t _really_ want the answer to, but he craves the hurt he could cause by asking them. His imagination engulfs him with _Why didn’t you tell me_ and _How could you do this_ and _Please just don’t leave me_ and eventually one day he hopes to not hurt as much as their figmented expressions suggest they do, when he poses the questions in his imagination.

He lists sideways down the staircase and _it happened under my own roof._ He sits on the edge of the guest bed and _I would never have even known_ . He stares past the pile of letters in his hands and _was there ever any hope for anything different_.

He spends most of his life in _What if_ , coming up with worse and worse ways to torture himself while everyone around him shouts in the back of his brain to _Move on!_ Always so loud in his head, all the damn time, telling him what to do, who he is, why it happened.

An unbearable existence was his future up until the day he found the phone.

It appeared on his bedside table as Mark opened red eyes sore from another sobbing nightmare. He laid on his side and twisted his head on his pillow to gaze at it distantly. It was slim, box-shaped, and pitch black. When he finally reached an aching arm to grab it, it was cold to the touch.

It appeared to be made of metal and glass-- but when he touched it, light seared his eyes, bleeding into the darkness of the room and banishing some of the shadows from his face. Mark squinted into the brightness and flipped the thing upside down. There was a small indentation at the bottom, a button. The light dimmed by itself and the colors on the glass changed, forming a picture with a large box in front.

_Restore all saved (and corrupted) data?_

_Yes  l No_

That was… weird. How could something so small, so tough, so cold in his fingers be this complex? Where had it come from in the first place?

The device flashed to black, glitched, then returned to the same query box. Tentatively, Mark tapped _Yes_ , recoiling his finger as a new moving circle appeared with the text  _Retrieving all lost and stored data. Please wait…_

Mark blinked several times through the light. Extraordinary. Almost like a moving picture--

The screen glitched again, went black, then reopened to the first image. It was a large white M on a black background with a pink moustache pasted over it. In front of the image were several other boxes labelled _Messages_ and _Photos_ and _Music_.

Before he could move, a loud crack echoed through the room, and Mark frantically dropped the device onto his bedsheets. A moment and a few experimental jabs later, a banner appeared at the top of the glass: _One new message._ On the green box labelled _Messages_ was now a red bubble with the number one inside.

Mark took a deep breath, clamping down on his nerves and the overwhelming feeling of discovering something new and unknown, and tapped on the box. Immediately, a white screen appeared with a list of names and faces he had never seen before, along with lines of text cut off with ellipses next to them. Mark tapped the conversation that was marked in blue.

_Software update complete._

_Update 3.1 report as follows:_

__\- Removed processing glitch on germanic languages_ _

_\- Synthetic skin no longer combusts from error in command codes_

_\- Issue with backwards-reading name designation resolved_

 

Gibberish. It was complete nonsense to him. Frustration growing with a lack of clues or revelations in this mystery, Mark pulled his finger down the glass, scanning the faces on the messages until he reached the bottom and froze. There, a face he recognized, albeit just barely due to the low lighting and-- was that makeup?

With a frenzied tremor in his fingers, he tapped the conversation and hit the _Type Message_ box, crying out in triumph when a familiar keyboard popped up. It was small, but still the same as his typewriter, and it wasn’t difficult to type out a quick message.

_Damien, is that you? What’s going on here?_

There was a swooshing noise as soon as he hit the button to send, but he contained his surprise this time. There was no response for a long minute, and Mark slowly felt a despairing frustration coil in his gut. Why did this thing appear by his bed if not for him to use it? What was the point in exploring if there was nothing on the other side?

Just before he was about to give up and put the thing back where he found it, a small bubble appeared on the side of the screen. A moment later, it expanded into a message.

_...Who is this?_

Mark nearly choked on his own gasp, fumbling the device in his hands in his fervor to respond.

_Quit playing around, Damien. It’s Mark._

There was another long, tense moment that stretched several breaths. Then, finally:

_How did you get this phone?_

_Come on, Dames, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is all this?_

_At this juncture, playing the fool is not in your best interest._

_Reveal yourself._

Mark made a heated noise past clenched teeth, then stopped his fingers above the glass. What if… What if this wasn’t Damien after all? What if this really was just some stranger, or otherworldly holder of some similar device? ...What if this was the device’s real owner?

_One could ask you to do the same._

_...It appears we have reached a standstill._

_Perhaps we could come to a mutual agreement instead._

_Return this phone to its rightful owner, and no further consequence should come of you._

Mark blinked, shook his head a few times, then sat up in bed, leaning against the baseboard and pulling the covers around his waist.

_I have no idea how to do that._

_I… see._

_Excuse me a moment._

Nothing appeared after that message for a long minute. Mark stared at it, wondering what could have pulled the person away, when he received a new message from the first conversation he had seen.

_A new designated user has been identified and recorded on this device._

_Please state your name, contact information, and intent._

_Mark, Markiplier Manor… getting information?_

There was a long pause, and Mark began to wonder if these other beings were slow in the head or just slow at typing. At last, he received a reply.

_Impossible._

_The connected service tower is not capable of reaching multiple dimensions._

_Identify yourself._

_I told you, my name is Mark._

_Impossible._

_Signals indicate a source from outside of Markiplier’s dimension._

_Identify yourself._

Mark grit his teeth as his frustration hit a high, his fingers slapping keys with articulate fury. He wanted answers, dammit, not questions.

_I AM Markiplier! How many times do I have to tell you? My name is Mark, this stupid metal brick appeared on my nightstand, and nobody is telling me anything!_

There was another pause, but this time a chill pierced his hotheaded anger: he had no idea what these things were, or what they could do. Did he really want to risk pissing them off?

Surely, he didn’t _have_ to. All he had to do was put the damned thing down and leave the room. Problem solved. Simple as that.

He was so caught up in this thought that he jumped when the notification came on screen.

_Understood._

_Please navigate to the lock screen using the small button atop the device._

_Note the date at the front, then navigate back to this conversation and report your findings._

_Um. Okay?_

Feeling like a toddler learning what a wooden block was, Mark ran his fingers across the device, huffing in surprise as he met a small button. Clicking it rendered the glass screen black, and he panicked for a moment, but hitting it again brought up the first screen he had seen, with the date and time on the front. Proud and eager to show his quick prowess, he went back to the messages.

_September 16th, 1935. The date’s correct._

And again, Mark was plunged into the agony of waiting for a response. Idly, he tapped to some of the other conversations, reveling in the eccentric profile pictures and very, very long conversations. Then the device chimed, and his previous conversation with not-Damien was at the top again.

_You live in Markiplier Manor._

_Yes._

_Among your friends, the colonel, the mayor, and his sister?_

Mark grew very still, fingers hovering above the keys. A flash of indignant anger and fear shot through him at once, and he swallowed it back harshly. This man knew about Damien, about Celine, about…

_We are no longer in communication._

The reply bubble appeared again, but it disappeared. Once again, it appeared then disappeared and Mark knew the other man was backtracking.

_Perhaps you should read Damien’s letters._

Instinctively, his gaze drew to the desk drawer where he had stashed the unread letters. How did he…?

Mark was halfway through typing a wary response when the device chimed again, and a red circle appeared in the corner, along with the text _Offline._

Perhaps someone wasn't too keen on talking-- but as he considered it, Mark wasn't eager to know just how much this strange man really knew.

Interrupting his thoughts was another notification from a completely different person, his profile picture denoting a man with a haphazard blood-soaked bandage around his eyes.

_The Host would like to introduce himself._

Mark squinted at the glitching contact name, then again at the message and pursed his lips.

_I’m Mark._

_Of course._

_This is an unprecedented, unexpected interaction._

_Perhaps the events preceding such interaction could provide beneficial context._

Mark frowned, scratching his jaw. Why did these people talk so oddly?

He was mid-way through typing a response when the top of his screen was bombarded with several banners appearing on top of each other, each too quick to make out the details.

_One second._

The new notifications were from the chat message dubbed _Google_ , the first conversation he had had.

_Name designation “Mark” upload: Successful_

_My name designation is Googleplier, as denoted by the contact name at the top of your screen._

_I was designed as a personal robot assistant, whose primary objective is to answer any and all questions as quickly as possible._

_Evidence suggests a time period asynchronous with the device you are holding._

_This device does not belong to you._

The screen glitched, fritzing out and producing a small buzzing noise before returning to normal. Googleplier was typing.

_Given these discrepancies, all information about you is to be assimilated._

_Please answer any and all questions put to you._

_Failure to comply will result in a complete wipe of the device._

Mark straightened, jaw clenching at the sinking feeling in his stomach.

_Alright, seriously, what the hell is this?_

_Please confirm compliance with above stipulation._

_Hold on! I’m just as confused as you are!_

_Please confirm compliance with above stipulation._

_Are you blind? Illiterate? I don’t know anything!_

_Failure to comply noted._

_Beginning wipe in 3…_

_2…_

_wait_

Fuck.

Why the hell had he done that? This-- this didn’t matter to him, it shouldn’t matter to him.

But it was the first time he had talked with _something_ since… since he pushed everyone else away. Damn him, he was weak, but he couldn’t stand that shiver that tickled his neck at the thought of being alone again.

When he went to type again, his fingers were trembling.

_Alright, I’ll tell you everything I know._

_What little I know, anyway._

There was a moment of stillness, and Mark briefly chastised himself. He shouldn’t feel like this, like he was craving contact. He wasn’t. He--

_Compliance confirmed._

_Please answer all questions as truthfully as possible._

_Question: How did you come across this device?_

_It was on my nightstand when I woke up._

_Question: Approximately how long were you unconscious?_

_I don't know. Maybe a couple of hours?_

_Question: What do you know of the previous owner of this device?_

_Nothing. Like I said, I just found it in my room._

_Question: Have you noticed any odd occurrences or events recently?_

Mark paused, fingers hovering over the keys. Other than the obvious, he had noticed-- stairways leading to nowhere, rooms shifting, the smell of smoke and ash lingering in the halls…  

No, it wasn’t anything, just speculation. Just funny, spooky stories spun in the attic and the basement at sleepovers.

God, he was really losing touch.

_Other than this thing? No._

_Working…_

_Question: Is there anything on this device recognizable to you?_

Mark’s eyes drew to the cabinet, as if magnetized. That man. Not-Damien. Recognizable, maybe not, but familiar… very familiar.

But then, that man must know Mark. How else would he know about the letters? About Damien and Celine and everything else? He must’ve known more than he was letting on.

And that-- that was _terrifying_. Sure, as an actor, Mark had fans, even stalkers, who tried to follow his private life. But this was beyond that. Hell, beyond real life. What the hell had he stepped into?

A swoosh alerted Mark of a new message, and something sour pooled in his gut. He ignored the message, turned the device around, then gently put it screen-down on his nightstand. There was another swoosh. He ignored it.

He had to ignore it. There was nothing there for him. He wasn’t getting answers from it, he was getting needless anxieties. Why… after everything that had happened, why couldn’t the world just _leave him alone?_

No. No, he had to calm down. It wasn’t anything, just a tiny box with no power over him.

…He could smash it. He _should_ smash it.

But that man knew about Damien’s letters. What else did they know about him? Could he really let it go, just like that? Leave it, like--

A blasting tone interrupted his musings, and he startled. The phone was blaring some sort of siren noise, loudly. Mark growled in frustration, stuffing his head into a pillow and muffling his ears. Still the noise persisted, even when the blanket was added as a buffer. All of a sudden, just as it had begun, it cut off, leaving Mark’s ears ringing in the sudden silence. Then--

“Fucking shit!”

Mark lunged for the device, wincing as the noise got louder. There were two buttons on the screen now, a red and green one. Swallowing his anger and fear and anxiety, Mark hit the green one.

 _“Hello? Is anyone there?”_ A tiny voice came from the speakers, and Mark almost felt his jaw hit the sheets. It took him a moment to come back into reality.

Tentatively, he whispered at the device a soft, “Hello?”

_“Ah! Great, you’re still alive! My name is Dr. Iplier, I was told to call this number. Except… hang on, this is--”_

“It isn’t mine,” Mark cut him off, then cradled the device in his hands and held it up to his face like a treasured vase. “I have no idea what the hell’s going on, what all this is.”

There was a clicking sound on the other side, like a pencil hitting a desk. _“Right, well, exposition’s not my area. I’m only a doctor. I was told you may need assistance-- your voice sounds hoarse, have you been screaming?”_

With all the answers he was getting, he certainly felt like screaming might do him some good. He pinched his nose and breathed, “No. Well, not on purpose, anyway.”

 _“Ah, nightmares, then?”_ There was a faint scratching sound that Mark immediately recognized.

“I’m not your patient, I’m-- I’m not sick! I just want answers, dammit!”

Silence, then a garbled sigh. _“Alright, kid. What’s your name?”_

“Mark.”

_“You… wait, really?”_

“Yes, really!” Mark snapped. What was it with these people?

 _“Right, right, okay,”_ the doctor hummed over the line, then continued, _“Hold tight and answer a few of my questions, and then I’ll hook you up with someone who can tell you what’s going on. Deal?”_

Mark blew air through his teeth, pushing hair out of face. He had to calm down. It wasn’t that big of a deal.

He took a deep breath and found his gaze resting on a portrait on the opposite wall. The paint was already peeling and the lack of light in the room didn’t make it anything special to look at, but it was easier to focus on that than his panic.

“Fine,” he finally replied, a note of exhaustion underneath.

The doctor must have noticed, because his first question was, _“How much sleep have you gotten in the last three days?”_

“Couple hours, maybe.”

_“And how much of that sleep is plagued by nightmares?”_

“Yes,” Mark said flatly, “Are we done yet?”

_“No. When was the last time you ate?”_

Mark thought back to the last tray he’d gotten. Two letters from Damien, which had become custom the last week or so, and a bowl of soup he left half-finished. “Again, couple hours ago. Before that… hell if I know.”

_“Have you experienced any head trauma recently?”_

Mark frowned. That was out of left field. “Nothing other than the headache answering these questions is giving me.”

_“Alright, fair enough.”_

There was a soft chuckle on the other line, which had a strangely calming effect on Mark. What was he so worked up about anyway? Solving this stupid mystery? What did it matter?

_“And recent psychological trauma? Death of a loved one, abuse, history of mental illness?”_

Mark froze. The light sensation in his chest constricted, and his grip tightened on the device. He debated throwing it across the room. Damn it, what was _wrong_ with him? One mention of anything out of the ordinary and there he went, spiraling down into that endless circle of doom and gloom.

_“So… I’m going to take that as a yes. Right-- just to keep you informed-- I was told you went unresponsive after mention of familiar things, stuff you recognize. In the medical profession, we call these triggers. Good to avoid them, eh? The human brain deals with things in a lot of different ways, and we shouldn’t provoke trouble at every opportunity. Understand? …I’ll tell Google to fill you in now.”_

Mark grunted unintelligibly around the _thing_ in his chest, and found himself looking back at his desk drawer. The thing tightened further.

_Damn._

He took the device with him, careful not to drop it as he untangled from the bedsheets and weakly padded over to his desk. He leaned next to the drawer, put the device on the carpet, and reached for the metal key atop the desk.

It was cold to the touch, and he nearly dropped it in trembling hands. It fit in the keyhole with a resounding click, and Mark almost felt the thing in his chest growing bigger, angrier. It didn’t want him to do this.

Inside the drawer, the pile was almost overflowing, and a pang of guilt accompanied the hopelessness. Where to start? The beginning? The first letter was bound to be buried at the back.

Well, then. He’d better get to sorting.

He had barely shoveled the pile onto the floor when the device made another loud noise. Mark peered at the notification from Google.

_Primary objective is to answer questions as quickly as possible._

Mark didn’t scramble for the phone in the same way he wasn’t scrambling for social interaction. The letters forgotten, he cradled the device and squinted through the harsh glow.

_Finally. This thing I’m typing on. What is it?_

_The device you are currently holding is called a “phone”._

_Definition: A slang term for ‘telephone’; a system that converts acoustic vibrations to electrical signals in order to transmit sound, typically voices, over a distance using wire or radio._

_…English, please?_

_If you are implying my linguistic abilities are outdated, I suggest to remind yourself of your own time period, many years behind the technology you hold in your hands._

Oh, great, Mr. Know-It-All had grown some attitude. This was going nowhere, fast, and Mark could feel a headache festering in the back of his head. He needed real answers already, or he was going to explode.

_A man on this “phone” looks familiar. How do I find out his name?_

_His contact information will be stored in the phone’s databanks._

_Navigate to the messages and tap the i icon at the top right to view contact info._

_Got it. Give me a minute._

Mark did as he was told, sparing a wary glance toward the letters as the phone loaded. The screen blinked out and glitched on the contact, but the name was printed in bold, black font. He went back to Google.

_What kind of name is Dark?_

_…Darkiplier is familiar to you._

_Darkiplier?_

_Yeah, he looks like someone I know. And…_

_He definitely knows more than he should._

_An interdimensional constant, it seems._

_Working…_

_If Darkiplier has assigned a directive for you, it would be in your best interest to follow through._

Mark huffed, leaning his back against his desk and holding the screen up to his face, tapping at the glass obnoxiously.

_So, what, he’s your boss?_

_His influence should not be taken lightly._

_Neither should mine._

_See, that’s what I don’t get. Who are you people? Why do you speak so oddly?_

_More importantly, how does this ‘Darkiplier’ know about me?_

_Calculating, please wait…_

_Results inconclusive._

_Our apologies; such questions are unable to be answered at this time by this designated user due to the possibility of conflicting timelines, dimensions, and/or outside circumstances. Please try again later._

So, once again, no answers. Mark closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool wood behind him, and sighed.

He was back to his baseline now-- no anger, no frustration, nothing. Just exhaustion, and a vague itch to escape his own skin. He flipped his eyelids up and toed one of Damien’s letters away, feeling all motivation to open them drain with the same sickly feeling in his stomach.

Light was beginning to seep through the cracks in his curtains. How much longer could he keep this up?

_All information can be accessed if given admin privileges._

Mark’s head snapped up at the notification, and before he could ask what that meant, an abrupt query box demanded his attention.

 _Allow admin privileges to_ **_userdesignation:Googleplier_ ** _?_

_Yes  l No_

Again, any reflexive action Mark would have taken was preempted by another notification banner, this one from someone under the name ‘Bim’.

_Bad idea_

Mark pursed his lips, tapped _No_ , then quickly found the chat with the new mystery man.

_Sorry, hello?_

_Good choice_

_last time someone gave Googs admin privileges, he tried to go on a killing spree_

_not entirely convinced he ever stopped trying_

The festering in the back of Mark’s skull gave its cage three resounding knocks, and he plastered a hand over his eyes, trying to rub out the headache this was giving him.

_And you would be?_

_Bim Trimmer_

_gameshow host extraordinaire, aspiring People’s Handsomest, and impromptu chef at your service!_

_anyway, I heard from the vine that you’re not the man your caller ID says you are_

_couldn’t deny myself a piece of the action now could I?_

The frown on Mark’s face deepened, his lip curling. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He wasn’t some interesting problem for them to solve--

Or, perhaps, he was. After all, that’s what they were to him. Before Mark could even think to start typing, Bim was back at it again:

_whoever you are, you must be important_

_scratch that, VERY important_

_What? What’s going on?_

Bim began typing, but his response was cut off by the screen glitching out, sharp static sounds cutting through the speakers. A moment later, it was back to normal.

_Dark’s calling a meeting about you_

_oooh, damn_

_i don’t think i’ve ever seen a look like that on his face_

At that point, the screen flashed white and a banner appeared, from the same bandaged man-- the Host, Mark recalled.

_They’re blank._

Mark squinted at the message, trying to make sense of it around the twisting instinct in his gut.

_The letters._

With a trembling hand, Mark reached for the nearest letter, tore the top, and took out the parchment inside.

Blank. Empty. Why would Damien--

_He didn't._

Mark’s breath hitched, and he held it in his throat as he typed furiously.

_What?_

_What does that mean?_

With no response, Mark dropped the phone and dove for more letters, hair spilling into his face as his furor sent tremors through his body. He shouldn't be ripping them, he should calm down and open them normally--

Blank.

Blank.

Blank--

“ _What the fuck,_ ” he seethed, wrenching the phone from the ground and making his way to his messages.

_This is a sick fucking joke_

_What the fuck is this supposed to be_

_I have Damien’s letters._

_I wouldn't have guessed, shithead, now give them back_

No response.

_Fucking talk to me!!_

_What the fuck could you possibly want with them_

_How the fuck did you take them_

_Fuck_

_Who the hell are you people!_

The phone screen crackled twice and cut out, then came back on the messages for Darkiplier. The typing bubble was bouncing jovially.

Mark was halfway to reaching his arm back to smash the device against the nearest wall when--

_If you want your letters back..._

_Come and get them._

_Initiating Chase Sequence Protocol in 3… 2… 1…_

_Activated._

* * *

 


End file.
